Chiomara's Revenge
by RZZMG
Summary: The maiden, Hermione Granger, is to marry her childhood sweetheart, Ronald Weasley, but his eldest brother, William (Bill), is now Baron of their family and lands, and he has invoked his ancient right to bed the bride and to breed her first (Droit du seigneur). DARK Medieval England A/U fic. Feat. Magical Creature-wolf mating/Dom-sub/Manipulation & Magic/Female empowerment/Revenge.
1. Intro & Notes

**AUTHOR'S NOTES:**

 **This was going to be my 2014 Samhain Smut Fest (sanmhain-smut . livejournal . com) entry. However, I didn't get the piece into the Mod until after the fest had begun posting, and so missed my chance. From what I can tell, the fest is not running anymore (they didn't run in 2015), so I'm going to post this up here.**

 **It's a multi-chaptered, completed fic.**

 _My prompt for the fest was: #H1. - Droit du seigneur (a.k.a. jus primae noctis) = the right of a Mediaeval lord to bed his vassal's brides on their wedding night, claiming their virginity for his own. Bill Weasley enacts this ancient custom after the war, to ensure solid breeding of each of the women destined to be Weasley wives (Audrey, Angelina, Hermione). He assures this happens on Samhain, which is the day every Weasley has historically married. You can throw in some sort of serious fertility ritual into it if you wanted to excuse Bill for being a horny, greedy bastard. Or not. Your choice. Would love it if you were to show an encounter with each wife separately, but you can pick just one wife to focus on if you want._

 **Thank you to my lovely beta, G! You are Hecate-sent, m'lady! :)**

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 **DISCLAIMER:** "Harry Potter" is the property of J.K. Rowling and Warner Bros. This fanfiction was written entirely for fun, not for profit, and no copyright infringement is intended.

 **TIMELINE:** Alternate universe–takes place in Muggle Medieval England (see below)

 **CHARACTERS FEATURED:** Bill x Hermione (main); others: Bill x Angelina (implied), Ron  & Hermione, Fred & Angelina

 **SUMMARY:** Hermione Granger is to marry Ronald Weasley, her childhood love, but his eldest brother, William, is now Baron of their family and lands, and he has invoked his ancient right to bed the bride and to breed her first.

 **RATING:** NC-17

 **WARNINGS:** Explicit het sex (non-con  & dub-con, including virginity loss), breeding/pregnancy/child birth, main character death, secondary character death, manipulation & mind games, loss of innocence, use of aphrodisiac and sleeping drug to control someone, infant death (off-screen), mention of illness, dismemberment (off-screen), cannibalism (implied), dark magic use, forced transfiguration into animal form, characters OOC for the sake of the plot. _**This is a VERY DARK fic that takes place in an Alternate Universe! Please take the warnings seriously.**_

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 _ **CHIOMARA'S REVENGE**_

 _ **By: RZZMG**_

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This is a very dark Alternate Universe story. Please read the warnings above before going further. If it's not your cup o'tea, I have plenty of other lighthearted fics, as well as favourite story recommendations on my profile page that you might find more interesting to read.

This first "chapter" is really just a series of notes containing historical information & translation information for the story. The actual tale begins in the second chapter.

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Timeline: 

The tale takes place over the course of a single year in Medieval Muggle England, from 1198-1199 C.E. For reference, Hermione and Ron are both 19 years old (rather old for a first marriage during this time period, in reality), and Bill is 28. Bill's attack by wolves took place in this fic in 1191 C.E.

Notes about the world: 

The characters aren't aware of magic in this fic, but it exists and waits to be unleashed. It's more superstition to them...until Hermione's magic wakes up. I've twisted things a bit to make the Weasleys powerful land owners during this time, too.

The Song in this fic:

If you want to hear the song Ginny & Molly sing during the ceremony, it is called "Y Galwd (The Calling)" and is sung by Ceredwen (www . youtube watch?v=XVnJg8nHjrU). The English translation is:

"The dawn is breaking, the tension mounting. My fate is waiting. I'm ready for the journey. The elders are calling from morning till night, awaiting the sacrifice to give them freedom. Early in the morning voices are calling. The time has come and I must go. Many years have I spent preparing for this moment. I offer my body for the Druids."

Historical & Cultural Notes:

Speech patterns: People of the 11th-13th centuries spoke what we term 'Middle English', which is as foreign to read to modern English speakers as Latin. However, I have opted to have everyone speak in a bastardization form of Early Modern/Modern English so my story doesn't require much translation work to be read. Hope that doesn't offend any lovers of history!

Religious affiliations: Devon's religious affiliation was the Roman Catholic Church and its Ordinary (its officer of the Church, entrusted to oversee the spiritual laws of the religion within its community boundaries) was the Bishop of Exeter.

Social Customs-Time Keeping: I have opted for a mix of cultural time-keeping methods in this fic, combining Latin and Welsh ideas. Nine days = A Welsh counting of a week. In their calendar, 9 days = a week. Three sets of 9 days = 3 weeks. To express a 30-day period (a month in the Julian calendar), they would say, 'three of nine-days and three" or "nine-days, three times more and three".

Social Customs-Weddings: There typically wasn't a wedding ceremony between partners; usually, it was a father & the intended groom shaking hands and/or signing paperwork & exchanging a dowry (only higher nobility/royalty made a to-do about marrying houses, usually to quell succession issues). However, I wanted a wedding for this fic, so I invented the marriage ceremony here using a combo of Celtic-Roman-Saxon-Norman traditions. I also know women didn't usually wear white dresses during this time period, either. However, I found several costume recreationist groups online whose clothes are amazing (even if they are part-period, part-fantasy) and I couldn't resist putting our characters in those clothes, just for fun. See Hermione's outfit here (www . polkadotpanther costuming/pre-12th-c/12th-c-white-court-bliaut). See Ron's outfit here (armstreet catalogue/full/medieval-long-mens-tunic-with-overcoat-5 . jpg). See Bill's outfit here (armstreet store/medieval-clothing/eastern-europe-linen-overcoat-costume).

Social Customs-Fostering & Children: Wealthy women or women of the peerage rarely, if ever, breastfed their own children (there were a few notable exceptions, but in general, this was not done). Wet nurses, called waiting-women, were usually brought in from trusted sources to feed children instead. These women were from typically poorer families who were vetted for various superstitious, religious, and/or ethnocentric criteria. Because of the invention of wet-nurses, wealthy/titled mothers rarely interacted with their children until they were out of the nursery (around age 4 or 5).

It is an old wives' tale that breast milk from a new mother may heal a barren woman's womb. This superstition was incredibly popular in some of the poorer districts, especially after major disease epidemics passed through a region, and so many priests (who were seen as authority figures in Mediaeval Britain) would often convince mothers who gave successful birth and who were healthy enough to collect their breast milk at the end of every day and give it to the priests in ritual bowls. The priests would then sanctify the donated milk with prayers and pass it on to all the women of a village, hoping to encourage all their wombs into being fruitful.

Swaddling a child and 'hanging them a-peg' was an extremely common and ancient practise for the handling of babies. There are records of it dating all the way back to ancient Egypt and in some cultures, it continues today. Although it is said this practise helped ease unexplained crib death and colic in young, and was beneficial to helping babies fall asleep faster and easier, it had several downsides to it, too. For instance, lazy wet nurses would leave children hanging for hours in their own feces and urine, which encouraged illness. Also, hip dysplasia was common in swaddled and pegged babies, as being tied down discouraged a child's muscle and motor development. There was also the possibility of a squirming child somehow falling off its peg or of a peg splintering. Falling from such a height could kill an infant or cause permanent physical damage. The great debate about swaddling continues today.

References to literary & real historical figures in the fic:

Boadicea = Also called Boudicca. Queen of the Iceni (died in 61 C.E.).

Cartimandua = Queen of the Brigantes (43-69 C.E.).

Chiomara = A Galatian noblewoman in 189 B.C.E. who was raped by a Roman centurion. For violating her, she cut off the soldier's head and presented it to her husband afterwards stating, "Only one man who has lain with me shall remain alive."

Eleanor = Eleanor of Aquitaine, Queen of England (1154-1189 C.E.). Wife of Henry II. Not to be confused with Eleanora Granger, who is Hermione's mother in this fic.

Hecate = Mythological Greek Titan (a primordial/chthonic deity), known as the goddess of magic, witchcraft, and the moon. Dogs were closely associated with Hecate in the Classical world. In many works of art and literature, she is shown accompanied by a dog or in dog-like form. It was written that her approach "was heralded by the howling of a dog." In later statues featuring Hecate, she is shown as a TRIPLE ASPECT – a warrior, a witch/seductress, and a mother. *Note: Wolves are cousins of dogs, and werewolves change under the light of full moons.

Hera = Mythological Greek goddess, wife of Zeus, and Queen of the Olympians. Her symbols are the diadem (female royalty), the sceptre (ruling power), and the pomegranate (fertility). Her chief function was to govern the affairs of women and marriage (often she is prayed to for protection against and for revenge upon abusive/cheating husbands). She is known to be a very aloof, conservative, petty, and vain goddess in general. She's less a motherly figure, and more a stern matronly figure, who you wouldn't want to thwart.

John Lackland = King John I's nickname.

Lycaon = In Greek mythology, Lycaon was a king of Arcadia. His story is told in the text of the fic. Lycanthopy, the disease of shape-shifting into a dog or wolf form, is attributed to him.

· Mathilda = Mathilda of Flanders or Maud, Queen of England (rules 1068-1083 C.E.). Wife of William the Bastard (a.k.a. William the Conqueror).

Pasithea = Greek goddess of rest and relaxation, wife of Hypnos.

Rhea = Mythological Greek Titan (a primordial/chthonic deity), known as the mother of the Olympians Zeus, Poseidon, Demeter, Hades, Hestia, and Hera. In myth, she is known as the ultimate mother-protector, saving Zeus from his fate of being swallowed by his jealous father, Cronus, and hiding the young god away to raise him in secret so that one day he could kill her husband and free her children from Cronus' gut. She is often shown as riding lions or chariots drawn by lions (ironic, given Hermione's House mascot).

Zeus = Mythological Greek god, husband of Hera, and King of the Olympians. His symbol is the lightning bolt (which is his primary weapon of choice, being the God of Thunder). He is known for being a lustful, fickle, cunning, provoking, and a wrathful god with little mercy in general. He is less a fatherly figure and more a twilight-aged playboy with a nasty temper.

Translations & Explanations of slang terms:

 _Energia_ = Greek for 'energy'. A concept that first appears in writing in the 4th century B.C.E. by the Greek philosopher, Aristotle. Was believed during that time to also include magical properties, as well as be responsible for things such as happiness and pleasure.

E'er = ever

E'ermore = evermore

Leofman = Mediaeval slang for "sweetheart" (only used for a lover, though, not as a general endearment)

'Twould = it would

'Twill = it will

Standing-maid = Mediaeval slang for a woman who stands at the side of the bride as her witness.

Witching hour = midnight

 _Imperium Romanorum_ = Latin for Roman Imperial Empire, a.k.a. the Eastern Roman Empire (known as the "Byzantine Empire" by the mid-1500's)

A winter mistress = Mediaeval slang for to a woman who warms a man's bed during the colder months of the year, but when spring comes around, he kicks her to the kerb. She is a woman hoping to better her circumstances for a little while by taking what she can get from a single patron while the getting's good. They are different from 'public girls', who worked in a brothel or walked the streets, as winter mistresses do not sell themselves for coin (although they would also never turn down the gift of a new dress or a pretty piece of jewellery from their patron). They are a lot like today's 'candy girls' who get kept by a 'sugar daddy'. Also called a 'convenience woman'.

Doves = Mediaeval slang for 'childhood sweethearts'.

Ken = knowledge/understanding/to know

Culver = Mediaeval slang for 'dove' (an affection term for a girl).

Prithee = Mediaeval for "please"

 _Non_ = French for 'no'

 _Ben ona değebilir?_ = Turkish for "may I touch it?"

 _Hadd érintse meg?_ = Hungarian for "may I touch it?"

 _Tylwythe teg_ – Welsh for faery/fairy folk, akin to the Irish concept of Aes Sidhe.

Stew = A Mediaeval English term for a brothel. Most villages had one. Although prostitution was not frowned upon by the Church during the 11th-13th centuries (the opposite, in fact – prostitutes were seen as necessary evils to keep men from masturbation and homosexuality or from engaging in sex positions or deviant sex acts outside the proscribed allowed ones with a wife, all of which were considered sins of the time). Here's a good general reference page on the subject.

Cratch-cradle = Cat's-cradle, a string game.


	2. The Wedding

The Allantide bonfire roars, snarling and crackling as her betrothed tosses a handful of white sage, minced dried apple, cinnamon, and ground walnuts onto its flames, scenting the air with his heartfelt offering. That done, Ronald turns, holding his palm out to her in a silent entreaty for her to come to him, to stand at his side tonight and e'ermore.

It is not typical for a marriage to take place on this night, known as Samhain to the Celts and Calan Gwaf to the Cornish, for this is a holiday reserved for endings, not beginnings.

However, Ronald will be leaving soon with his liege lord, the senior Earl of Devon, on a Holy Pilgrimage to Rome—that, despite the advisement by many for the Earl to wait for winter's conclusion before undertaking such a rough sea voyage—and her leofman does not wish to leave without securing her for his future. She is, after all, well past a marriageable age and there are more than a few eligible bachelors hanging about.

Not that Hermione will stray from this course.

This marriage to her childhood friend is the future that she has carved out for herself, and it is the best she can hope for given her station as the daughter of the Baron of Cranmere's physician-chiurgeon. She cannot afford to turn aside this union, for her aging parents' sake as well as her own. A match with a sixth son of a Baron is better than a tradesman by far, for her children will be landed nobility at least.

Besides, Ronald will be as a good husband as he has proven to be a childhood companion all these years, she is sure.

…And once she is known to a man, she believes she will no longer feel the injurious temptation of the flesh that continually hounds her, that sinful infatuation that boils her blood and leaves her dizzy and desirous every time her eyes dally over the new Baron of Cranmere.

She shivers as she once again thinks of William Arthur Weasley even as she passes off her small, autumn-themed bouquet to her groom's only sister, Ginevra, and lifting the hem of her fine, linen wedding dress, steps forward into the arms of her destiny with feet bared, shoulders back, and chin up. Even now, on this most auspicious of nights, as she goes to join her life to another, she cannot escape her unholy thoughts about the Baron…

The grounded circle of supple, young oak branches that have been twisted and tied together in the shape of an open-faced moon surround them, creating a space only for them and for the purpose of their union. The boughs, she knows, will later be used to decorate her firstborn's crib, just as her bouquet will be taken apart by her Standing-maid sometime before the witching hour and used to decorate the room where she will later lose her virginity. Just as in the ancient times of her long ago ancestors, nothing of the ceremony is wasted and everything to do with it is given reverent meaning.

There is a snapping of _energia_ upon the tips of her fingers that longs to be set free. It is a common occurrence in recent years, since her coming of age, and Hermione believes inconsequential. Why, sometimes, she sees the matronly Lady Weasley rubbing her hands as if to ward off such a feeling, too, so it must not be an evil thing. She shakes it off as she would the same small shock that comes from rubbing two furs together during a cold winter's morn, and extends her hands outward for her husband-to-be to hold.

Ronald's palms clasp hers, and they are both a little slippery from sweat. They share a small, silent smile over that, and his goodly grin reminds her of when they were children, e'er into the devil's mischief under Cook's nose and within the blacksmith's hay.

She keeps her attention on her husband-to-be, refusing to look at the man who stands before them and officiates over their nuptials. As the eldest surviving Weasley male now that Arthur has passed, William stands as witness to her marriage, as well as sanctioning bureaucrat. He knows the antiquated rites well, having watched his brother, Percival, commit to them in the years since his return from fostering and apprenticeship. This will be his first time as minister, however, as she and her betrothed begin to speak their vows.

Before their family and community, she and Ronald offer each other a life-long commitment to weather every storm together, to support the other when there is need, and to understand when there is weakness. As the last of the promises are made, there is the imagined feel of ancient magic in the air to sanctify the union, and the night cloaks them in a thin, fragile silence as they exchange gold rings in the Roman tradition. There is a chaste kiss to seal the deal.

As their lips part, the pronouncement is made to the assemblage by William that they are forevermore bound, and the deed is done. She is now wife to Ronald Billius Weasley.

 **~.~.~.~.~**

Even as Hermione's new husband takes her into his arms while the rest of the assembly cheers, her gaze once more unconsciously moves towards the man who has haunted her dreams of late—the man who has just presided over her ceremony.

The Baron Cranmere stands passively outside her marriage circle, dressed in a set of dashing, foreign robes that his adventuresome brother, Charles, has brought back from the _Imperium Romanorum_ for him. The exotic cut of the imported clothing makes him looks powerful, almost royal. The silver embroidery on the white undertunic matches beautifully with that sewn into the hem of his black overcoat, and adds to the impression of great affluence, as well as adding a flare of mystery to its wearer. The high, open collar is not a design found in English men's clothing, but Hermione finds it an attractive feature, drawing the eye upwards, forcing one to focus on William's strong jaw and chin.

He is, to be sure, a most striking man and a splendid example of his gender in terms of masculine strength, height, features, and fighting prowess. That he is also freshly returned from Crusade a knight of solid repute in helping King Richard retake Acre from Saladin's forces, and the eldest son and heir to his family's wealth—which includes all the lands south of the Earl of Devon's seat at Okehampton, including the rich and beautiful Dartmoor Forrest, down to Fox Tor, east to New House and west to Beardon—only adds to his appeal.

That he is further a widower, his willowy French wife having died in the birth of their third child, his only son, is most likely the reason why there are so many unattached witches in attendance tonight.

Not that Hermione is complaining that many of her wedding guests are not here tonight to favour her new union so as much they are to achieve personal political aspirations with her new brother-in-law. Their attempts to win William's attention by showing generosity to his youngest brother only adds to her and Ronald's household wealth, after all. The furs-lined capes, sumptuous bolts of fabrics, jewels, Afru-ika spices, and gifts of silver will be used wisely to benefit the entire family, and tonight's mingling presents Ronald with an opportunity to potentially win a patron so he may, too, go on Crusade once the old Earl is dead, and earn some personal glory and esteem of his own. Being a fourth squire and a sixth son does not, tragically, offer him prospects aside from serving as an administrator to one of his older brother's lesser estates.

Despite the profit that comes with being related to such a well-considered and land-rich man as Baron Cranmere, however, there is something dark and unholy that draws Hermione unwillingly to William Weasley—some inexplicable feeling for him that appeared quite unexpectedly around the time of his return to England from the Holy Lands these two years past, and which has lingered between them e'er since. When he nears, she is edgy, and to her shame, intensely aroused as a woman should only be in the presence of her husband. She has frequent sleeping and waking dreams about him and his burning blue eyes. There are times she even aches for him to hold her as her husband does now, and wishes for his mouth and strong hands to find and open all her sacred places.

Hermione is no spring chick. Ever curious, she has spent years creeping around the castle at late hours, and she has occasioned to secretly witness the act of love between a man and woman. She knows what things couples get up to when they are alone and where all their parts fit together, and increasingly, she has been imagining herself and William in such positions.

These sinful feelings are the reason she had begged her father to hurry and seal the match with Ronald, for even if she had not harboured some feeling of affection for her betrothed, she _still_ could not have hoped the widower Baron of Cranmere would set his sights upon her as anything more than a winter mistress…and that is a position, no matter her restless, itchy longing, that is not just shameful in her opinion, but unthinkable.

Praise to all the angels and saints that her father has always indulged her, his only child, and he was willing to recognise her childhood connection as a good one for her soul, despite its lack of wealth.

And it is a good match; she loves Ronald, and has wanted to be his wife in name and in deed from the time she was old enough to understand that a man needs a good woman at his side. Besides, theirs has always been a natural and decent fit, as they have been doves since they were small, playing in wheat fields for hours between Matins and Vespers, and counting stars together from his father's parapets on warm summer nights. They have seen many happy days together, getting into mischief in cook's kitchen, braiding each other's long hair, and practicing their archery. They have also weathered great sorrow with the death of their boon companion, Harry, when he was struck by lightning out on the bogs and killed at the tender age of eleven. They have shared touches and "show-me" games and a first kiss at sixteen, after a rather awful row involving the maid, Lavender Brown. Theirs has been a friendship borne of her parents' manipulations through her fostering to Lady Weasley's service, and their match has been an expected outcome from practically the time of her birth. There was no other future imagined for her.

…And yet, for all their affection for each other and their shared history, it is not Ronald Weasley who continually draws her eye with such fascination.

As she looks at William now, she is still perplexed as to put a name to the unnatural hold over her senses that he seems to have despite the new ring on her finger, much less from where it derives. Surely, it cannot be love, for she knows little about Ronald's brother other than their chance interactions around Cranmere Castle, and the one dance she shared with him last Twelfth Night, during the revelling. Perhaps it is pity and compassion for his imperfection that draws her in. The three slashing scars on his cheek—wounds sustained by a wolf attack on the road from Kalocsa in Hungary while travelling home from the war—are scarlet reminders that for all his advantages, he is also a man believed to be cursed. Although, from what she can see of the coy glances turned his way tonight, it seems many females are willing to overlook such a fact.

No, she knows in her heart of hearts that it is lust she feels for him, that most dishonourable of Baal-zebub's sins, and she has given many penances and indulgences over the last two years to ward off such evil.

To no avail, it seems. The Baron now stares back at her, his piercing eyes the same shade as her husband's, and in their depths there is an unmistakable echo of her desire.

She shivers and turns her face into Ronald's chest, letting his familiar smell and the steady beat of his heart provide her with a modicum of comfort. His arms tighten around her, as Ginevra's sweet, clear voice suddenly breaks into song. The traditional Welsh ballad is harmonized by her mother's beautiful, deeper alto and speaks of the fated journey ahead and the sacrifice that waits at the end of it…and of the offering of her body to a greater cause.

.

 _"Y wawr yn torri_ _  
_ _Mae'r tyndra yn esgyn_ _  
_ _Fy nghyned yn aros_ _  
_ _Rwy'n barod i'r siwrne_

 _Henuriaid yn galw_ _  
_ _O fore tan nos_ _  
_ _Maen't yn aros am yr aberth_ _  
_ _A fydd i'w rhoi rhyddhad_

 _Yn gynnar yn y bore_ _  
_ _Lleisiau yn fy ngalw_ _  
_ _Yr amser wedi cyrraedd_ _  
_ _Ac mae'n rhaid i'm fynd_

 _Wedi treilio amryw flwyddyn_ _  
_ _Paratoi am yr eiliad hon_ _  
_ _Er mwyn rhoi fy nghorff mewn offrwm_ _  
_ _I'r Derwyddon."_

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 _ **TO BE CONTINUED...**_

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 **Author's Notes:**

 **And so we begin. Please review!**

 **Also, for all status updates as to my fics, please read my Livejournal blog here: rzzmg . livejournal . com . It will contain discussions & info. about my fics.**


	3. Upholding Tradition

**Author's Notes:**

 **Just a reminder that this ISN'T a romance story. It's a dark fic. That = not happy, not romantic. Just FYI.**

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 **~.~.~.~.~**

Hermione's knees shake so hard, she is forced to sit down in a rush before they give out completely. Her bottom connects heavily with the wooden stool that Ginevra quickly scoots into place behind her. If not for that, she'd be sprawled all over the floor in a disgraceful heap.

"It is a jest, surely." Her disbelief is edged with panic. "It _must_ be! I beg of you, tell me true!"

A glance at her mother's tight mouth and rigid stance articulates without words to Hermione that the explanation of what awaits her this night has not been exaggerated in the slightest, and that no, she will receive no consolation in the face of such shocking, depraved news from the woman she calls 'mother'.

Eleanora Granger does not now, nor most likely ever will, offer her daughter defence or comfort from the blows she will take in life. She is like Queen Hera in her dealings—a stern mistress, critical, haughty, and ever seeking an opportunity for greater glory for herself and her household, no matter the cost. How Richard Granger, a kindly and even-tempered man of God, ever fell in love with such an ambitious, cruel woman is beyond Hermione's ken.

"'Tis no jest, my culver," Lady Weasley gently informs her, tenderly brushing back a stray curl from Hermione's cheek, tucking it under her wimple. " _Droit du seigneur_ is a long-held and respected Norman tradition. The first Weasley heir on these shores was borne of such custom, in fact, held in the arms of William the Bastard, hisself. Such breeding strengthens a family's blood, and think, darling mine—your child will be the Baron's own issue."

"A bastard as well!" Hermione hisses.

Lady Weasley shakes her head. "Ronald will claim the siring. The child need never know."

" _I_ will know! I will feel the chronic prick of betraying my vows to the grave!" She stands, beginning a bout of nervous pacing the length of the room. "Dear Lord Above, do you not hear yourself speak! You sanction adultery! 'Tis against the law...and a sin!" She whirls on her mother then, her wrath a terrible weight about her neck, burning her mouth. "I know you do not love me, Madam Mother. I have long ago accepted such a certainty. That you would see the King's law destroy my body is not such a shocking thing to me. That you wish for my eternal soul to burn in Hades, however, is...and all for your damnable political ambitions!"

Her mother's palm connects with her cheek, signalling a loud crack through the room. It stumbles Hermione back a step, and she gapes at the woman who has birthed her, having made the mistake of underestimating her mother's restraint.

Lady Weasley hurriedly rushes between them, her formidable form a solid barrier to any further violence. "My sweetling, the Baron _is_ the law here," she explains, soothing her with a kind touch and leading her towards a seat by the window. "And it be that the Bishop of Exeter recognises _Droit du seigneur_ as well." She takes Hermione's hands in her own meaty hold and kisses her knuckles. "There will be no punishment for complying to yer lord's wishes."

Hateful tears are as a deluge before her eyes. "I cannot do this to mine husband. I cannot!"

"'Tis a lord's right to command it," her mother-in-law reminds.

"And a woman's place to obey," her own mother adds.

Hermione shudders at the word, and Eleanora appears almost triumphant that she can elicit such a reaction from her daughter. There is a feverish gleam in her eye as well—one that tells Hermione that her mother understands the great benefits she will experience should Hermione conceive a child tonight: a permanent apartment within the castle, access to finer food and company and possessions, and required respect from the village women, at least in deed.

There comes a light, courteous rapping upon the door. Lady Weasley straightens, and begins herding her daughter towards the door. "Come, dearest ladies, we should withdraw so mine son might have a moment alone with his new bride."

Ginevra gives her a small, encouraging smile and wave as she is shoved out the door in front of her mother. Eleanora does not glance back once as she heads out as well. Hermione feels the familiar stab of disappointment where her mother is concerned.

There is no more time to think such on such a pitiable relationship, however, as Ronald enters and closes the door behind him. He does not approach, instead leans against the door as if overcome by some terrible emotion.

"Will you say nothing, then, to stop this madness?" she asks when there is a long patch of silence to rest between them.

He groans and puts a hand over his eyes, tilting his head towards the sky. "What can I do, beloved? He is mine brother and keeper and lord, and he has set his sights to this, determined for a strong son."

"I was told any child conceived from this…devilish matter…would n'er know the circumstances of this night. William cannot claim him—"

"He will," Ronald states, very assured. "If it be male, he will. He needs an heir should Louis die."

Everyone knows William's heir is a weakling child, borne of a sickly mother. All are unsure if he will survive his first year or not.

"You cannot do this," Hermione hisses, and her hands tangle up in the sides of her chemise in a white-knuckle grip to keep her limbs from lashing out in anger. "I am _your_ wife!"

Ronald flinches, turning his head away. "Do not scream. My head…"

She stands, appalled as a suspicion creeps forward into her mind. "You are in your cups!"

He says nothing, just grips the side of his skull.

Her ire burns hotter than even when she'd confronted her mother. "You dare to drink yourself into a scrum while sending me to your brother's bed on our wedding night without such benefit? Will you spare me no pain?"

His fist slams into the door, rattling it. "Enough, Hermione! I want this no more than you."

She barks a bitter laugh. "I doubt that very much. 'Twill not be your body he breaches, your innocence he claims!"

"No, 'twill be my heart he tears from me instead!" he shouts, gripping the area over his left breast with a clutching hand.

There is no hiding her sobs behind her hand. She has no pride left to protect. "I will beg you on bended knee, if you wish. Ask your brother not to invoke his rights this night. Allow me to be only yours."

Because she knows that if William Weasley touches her, she will not be the same woman e'erafter. She fears her sweet, pure love for Ronald will fade, to be consumed by her lust for a man not her husband. She fears it as much as she fears the terrible Lord of Night.

Ronald's chest pumps as if he has just run a great distance. "I will not be allowed to go with Devon to Rome should I convince you against this course of action."

Hermione's knees tremble again and she sits back down on her vacated seat, the import of her husband's revelation a striking blow. If Ronald is disallowed the opportunity to accompany his liege lord to visit the Holy See, his chances of becoming a full-fledged knight will be extinguished. He will n'er be allowed to hold a position of authority within any household. This is his journey to manhood, his one chance to earn his reputation to soldier and to establish himself an accomplished aide, just as his elder brothers have all done. Without Devon's sponsorship, he will never be knighted.

"He would take this from you, his own brother…just to have me?"

"Aye, that and more." Ronald looks at her then, and she can see the strain around his eyes and mouth. He is profoundly unhappy with this choice. "He has confided in me that he intends to remain unwed. For how long, I know not, but what is clear to me is this: he would have taken you for wife had you not insisted upon me to your father. As he cannot have you as such now, he will instead breed you, to secure his line and to slake his lust for you."

Her arms wrapped around her middle do not cease Hermione's shivering, and her dread threatens to make her ill. "This scheme…'tis sinful," she whispers, closing her eyes to the tears that bead along her lashes and down her cheeks. "My soul will burn in the fires of eternity for this."

"Nay, love," Ronald attempts to comfort her, crossing the distance and taking her into his arms once again. "You are an innocent doe, and I the villain in this tale."

They whisper quietly to each other then, speaking of wishes and apologies and begging forgiveness from the other. Hermione comes to accept in those moments that, as a woman, she will never have much of a say in her life's course. On this night, held as she is under the sway of a Samhain moon, there be no exception to that rule.

William does not bother to knock as he enters her chambers as they approach the witching hour. Of a sudden, Ronald's bones become brittle under her hands, and his body quivers along with hers. He trades silent glares with his brother for a long moment, but in the end, there is no choice and he lowers his sight to the floor. He surrenders to his familial duty with a mournful sigh.

 _A small sacrifice for a greater life_ , Hermione tells herself.

"Perhaps once is all he will need to be appeased, and we may live on in peace," she quietly offers her husband, attempting to comfort and instill courage in him as they head to the door together, hand-in-hand, as they have e'er walked.

Ronald says nothing, but he does grab her and plants a rough kiss upon her mouth just before he leaves her to her fate. She feels the hot splash of his regret drip from his lashes onto her cheek. Hers will not be the only ruin this night, she now kens; against his will, her husband will lose the chance to deflower his new wife, to instruct her in the etiquette of love, and to be the first man to fill her with his seed and complete her. Instead, he must suffer his heartless brother ploughing her field and reaping her harvest within a nine-month.

She is heartbroken for them both.

She whimpers as he hastens away, shoving past his eldest sibling, whose bigger frame is unmoved by the disturbance.

When Ronald's footsteps recede and the door is closed and the bolt thrown, she backs away on hasty feet, praying her quickened heart will stop between one beat and the next and spare her the coming humiliation. "I will pray three times a day to the Virgin Mother and all the Saints to bless you and your heir with long life and health, m'lord," she hastily bargains, hoping to appeal to the Baron's Christian duty, his honour, and his greed all at once. "An' I will burn incense and make a relief of the marriage gifts unto your household. This I do swear!"

He turns the power of his burning blue gaze upon her, and her body flushes with awareness once more.

"I thank you for your charitable prayers and accept your offering," he replies, perfunctory and polite…and utterly without feeling.

Loosening the ties on his collar, he steps towards her, his course clear. There will be no respite for her, not this night.

"I beg of you, m'lord, this need not be!"

William has a wolf's smile, as if he has scented her response to his undivided attention. It makes her doe's heart quake.

"I am afraid it does."

* * *

 _ **TO BE CONTINUED...**_

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 **Author's Notes:**

 **Please review!**


	4. The Mating

**Author's Notes:**

 **I want to reiterate that this story is not new. I wrote it in 2014. I'm just now posting it up, however. Rest assured I haven't dropped my W.I.P. stories to tackle this one. In fact, by the end of February, I think those who read most of my other W.I.P. stories will be quite pleased.**

 **Also, a HUGE thank you to FF user "HDan" for correcting my Turkish. This chapter is dedicated to you, HDan! :)**

* * *

Hermione watches Bill move around her bedchambers with the slow, assured grace of a predator, and feels close to experiencing her first bout of vapours.

Her gaze is pinned to him as he pauses here and there about the room to touch various adornments earlier left by his sister and mother on the room's furniture, its window ledge, and the large linen chest that lies at the foot of the massive bed. He seems particularly curious of the individual stems of flowers, autumn wheat, and hawthorn berries that had once been a part of her bouquet, bringing several pieces to his nose to scent.

"M-my lord, perhaps this pagan custom would be better to...to pass over," she entreats him a second time to turn aside his absurd idea.

William doesn't answer, instead bringing a late-blooming garden rose close to his face to examine.

"'Twould be a kindness to mine husband, your brother, to leave this night to him," she tries again.

He glances at her from the corner of his eye and plucks the petals off the flower in his hand. "Did you know I can taste the rush of your blood in the air as a steady pulse against my tongue?" he asks, and tosses the rose's soft layers onto the bed coverlet. He does the same with a red Dahlia, and then with a small bunch of Sternbergia, scattering their colourful, soft petals everywhere. "I hear your heart a-pounding the war cadence between your ribs? Its power enchants my soul."

He moves around the wooden frame towards her, his intentions set. "Yet, it is not fear I see in your eyes, my lady." He stands before her, barely a breath between them as he reaches up to caress her shoulder. "I see desire in the set of your mouth, in the heaving of your bosom, and in the apples of your lovely cheeks." He leans his mouth towards her ear and whispers, "I smell it blooming like sweet, ripe fruit between your milk-soft legs." His hand skims down her arm, and he grabs her wrist, bringing it to the centre of her femininity. Guiding her hand, he pushes against her core. " _Puis-je toucher?_ "

Hermione stiffens. Her mother's tutoring did not include the reading of letters, but it did encompass the speaking of French, as well as Latin. She understands well his meaning. " _Non_ ," she replies, jerking his hand away.

William laughs, delighted by her rebelliousness. "French is not to your liking? Mayhaps Ottoman Turk will move you instead? _Dokunabilir miyim?_ No? How about… _Hadd érintse meg?_ Do you not find Hungarian alluring?"

Fiercely, she shakes her long, lion's mane of hair where it falls, freely, having been removed from its wimple and plait by her mother earlier.

"Perchance it is only in our native tongue that you will respond. Very well." His hands smooth a line from her hips to her breasts, cupping them in his large palms. "May I touch? May I know how soft a heaven you are?"

Even as she trembles at his proximity, and at his wicked, lyrical words, and how his thumbs lightly caress her nipples, Hermione's pride stands firm. "Not only a Baron who exercises absolute dominion over his vassals, or a hardened soldier for Christ, but a poet of many languages as well. How gifted you are, m'lord."

He presses his advantage and rubs harder. "Saucy wench. Many lords would take a strap to a shrew mistress, but I confess that it is a favourite quality of mine in a fine woman. It proves her vitality."

Hermione slaps his hands away. "I am no mere sheath for your dagger!"

Undeterred, his fingers roam over her hips instead. "You are, my dereworthy heart…and it is time to prove as much."

He pulls the side lacing of her wedding bliaut free.

As a frightened bird attempting freedom from a net, Hermione flaps her arms and manages to dislodge her captor's hold. Stumbling back, she hastens to get away, but William moves with an unnatural speed and before she can utter a scream, she is on her back in the bed and the Baron Cranmere is atop her.

She can barely draw breath against the heat of his body, which radiates like the sun against her skin. His chest brushes against hers and their legs entangle. He leans into her, pressing her deeply into the wool mattress with his heavier form, and his fingers wrap around her wrists, holding her captive.

Turning her head, she closes her eyes, waiting for the business to be done and praying she has the strength not to enjoy it.

Her Lord does not shove her skirts to her waist to get on with it, however, but instead pauses a moment. "Maid, look to me," he whispers, and it is a coaxing, tender plea her body cannot resist answering, no matter her mind's resolve. She peeks through her lashes at him and he rewards her with a chaste kiss to the tip of her nose. "Do not fear me, Hermione, my love."

 _My love._

Her heart thumps wildly in her chest as she watches him slowly shift a hand, raising it towards her face. With light caresses he traces the contours of her cheeks, her brow and her jaw and with an unexpected gentleness. He even smoothes a stray hair from her cheek.

Fire burns through her blood with every stroke of his fingers over her hot skin. Her eyes close again as she absorbs the delight William provides.

According to her mother, 'tis a sinful weakness that females have e'er been creatures to revel in the wonder of touch. Hermione cannot see as how that it true, as the feel of grass against her bare legs, of the soil under her feet, of the rushing chill of a stream's water through her fingers, of the softness of flower petals against her cheek, of the moon's soft light bathing her body...these things have made her feel alive as no scent, no taste, no sight, no sound ever has. As she walks the fields, lays in the grass, feels the wind and the rain against her skin, and feels the occasional crackle of _energia_ on her fingertips, she e'er believes herself a nymph bathing in the love of God's creation. To be so blessed from on high can only be good, can it not?

Lady Weasley has told her in soft whispers that this type of pleasure is an ancient and powerful magic that exists solely between woman and earth that men do not share, cannot know. It is sacred femininity, a thing of beauty and secret. This she is inclined to believe, and to water with her mother!

Hermione feels that same power from her earth-bond now, as she lays limp under William's touch. He smells of forests and highlands, and he looms over her the same as winter's coming, and the tickle of _energia_ that follows wherever he strokes leaves her heavy heart pounding.

There is no fear now, only wild need. It begins to consume her, inch by inch, until her thighs tremble and her breasts ache and her hips writhe. Until she does not remember who she is, only what she hungers for and how that lust consumes her.

"Nay, I do not fear you, William," she admits with a breathless sigh, opening her eyes to meet her lord's. "'Tis myself I fear."

A slow, masculine smile turns his mouth up at the corner and he watches her with a half-lidded intensity filled with knowledge.

They lay there together in the hushed, private room, with only half a dozen beeswax candles flickering, golden tongues to keep the darkness at bay, and Hermione knows then that she has sealed her fate with her confession and with the intimacy of speaking the Baron's given name in the same breath.

Her stomach ties into knots, and she bites her bottom lip, a part of her—the good, loyal wife—returns to the forefront of her mind, bringing with it the hollowness of regret and guilt, and making her wish fervently she could take it back. The other part of her, however—the awakening woman—dares her to speak the desires of her heart.

William's fingertips slip across her cheek and gently release the skin of her bottom lip from the hold of her teeth. He lingers there, considering her mouth, and she wonders what devilish thoughts he is contemplating next.

His finger slowly slides into her mouth and back out. He repeats the motion, and again.

"I will have all of you, Hermione," he promises her, his wolfish eyes darkening with his greed once more. "Even this."

She does not understand his meaning, but a moan of longing escapes her as he withdraws his finger.

He stares into her eyes as he traces the bow of her mouth, and she is unable to turn away. What is this mysterious hold he has over her? Why does her very soul tremble when their gazes meet, when their hands brush, when his mouth forms her name?

"I claim _Droit du seigneur_ ," he whispers and nips at her bottom lip. His lips graze her chin, her cheek, her mouth. "I am your Lord. Submit to me. Be mine as you were meant to be. Let the wild have you."

He kisses her then, fully with parted mouth, thrusting his wet, hungry tongue against hers. Hermione's limbs shudder and her body flushes with a thousand lashes of heat, and there is that sudden, yet familiar tingling of _energia_ in her fingertips again. It crackles and snaps against her flesh, much as it had earlier, within the circle of oaks.

Pleasure such as she has never known abruptly caresses her from head to toe and she finds her mouth opening willingly for her lord. Each pull of his lips unleashes her bit by bit, until her tongue is eagerly coaxed into dancing with his. An animal-like lust strongly grips her heart as their limbs and mouths and fingers tangle, and Hermione has an inexplicable longing to throw off her clothing, to run through the meadow beyond the castle, out into the dark forest and beyond, with William at her side.

So powerful is the call, her body bucks and her thighs part...

He falls into her crevice and yanks at the side of her nightdress, ripping the sleeves from her shoulders to release her breasts from their captivity. He captures a mound in his palm as she spills free of her human trappings, and his fingers massage it with an expert touch.

"Give unto me," he whispers, lowering his head to her throat to nip the sensitive skin along where her blood's pulse races. "Give unto the magic between us."

His tongue laps over her skin, making her toes curl. Hermione pulls at his renewed hold upon her wrists, her fingers yearning to touch him, but he tightens his grip, keeping her his captive, his indomitable will imprisoning her as effectively as chains. Her body arches as the need within her loins grows hotter, more restless. Her breasts strain as her nipples are abraded by the roughness of her linen mantle. Its softness, too, stands as a barrier to her freedom.

The summoning becomes a powerful compulsion upon her, and her struggles increase. She _must_ be unbound, allowed to run, to feel the magic of the world beneath her straining body, to find a place where the grass is soft and the earth cool. The desire to lie back and spread her legs, to let William mount her, enter her, unite with her under the moon and with only the wind and the stars as witness pulls at her more strongly than any commandment.

It is only when she recognises that it is _her_ mouth producing those awful, dog-like whining noises that she abruptly remembers who she is and returns to herself.

"What have you done to me?" she cries, terrified by such inhuman desires as rush through her. "What is this devilry?"

His lids lower again, hiding fathomless eyes the same mysterious blue of the twilight welkin. He turns his head and runs his mouth across the bottom of her jaw, pauses over her sensitive ear. "It is not evil, what you feel. It is your nature, passed to you by your ancestors who came from far away across the continent to settle this island. Their blood has survived the ages, and you...you are the last of them. Your connection to the earth's magic and to Mother Moon are your birth right. Did you not feel it while you stood within the circle of oaks on this most sacred of nights?"

He nips her tender earlobe. She gasps at the exquisite sensation that runs through her body and her fingers clench into fists.

"You are a daughter of Hecate, goddess of magic...and I am a son of Lycaon, the deceiver. I am the cursed wolf, bound to your moon."

She cries out as he bites down over her pulse, sinking deep and bleeding her, infecting her with his passion-fever. At the same instant, he releases one of her wrists and cups her breast, kneading it and seeking out her nipple to pluck it as casually as he had the flower petals earlier.

The pleasure consumes Hermione's senses and she moans again, arching against him.

"You are mine, and I am yours," he tempts her as his mouth lifts to her ear again, pinching and pulling until she is taut and aching for more.

Hurriedly he dips his mouth to encompass her nipple within the hot, wet cavern of his mouth. Pleasure o'ertakes her senses. It is all-encompassing, such that she barely feels the pull of her skirts or notices William's hurried movements at his waist. She feels his fingers delve between her legs, seeking out the font of her womanhood and breaching the damp flesh to test her readiness. Her thighs widen further of their own accord, her body strains for this man who is not her husband, but something else...something altogether perfectly wicked.

William's lips release her breast, but his smile stretches with satisfaction against her throat. "You feel it, at long last—the call to be mine."

She shudders as his finger enters her body and he moves it in an out to an enticing rhythm that has her hips willingly moving to meet him.

"Do not do this to me!" she pleads, knowing she is already lost.

"I do nothing, but bring pleasure to you, my mate."

 _Mate._

Yes, that is the whispered word that has eluded her, skimming across her mind and heart and body since William's return from Crusade.

 _Mate._

It is this feeling of belonging to him that has haunted her each time their eyes have met across a room, or the sensation that follows her as she walks past him through the bailey, or in the hall, or on the stairs.

 _Mate._

It is the truth that binds her to him, and makes her forsake Ronald and her vows and everything holy. She desires him unto madness, and the call is too powerful to resist any longer.

Hermione lifts her hips, the word, "please" a continuous prayer upon her lips. William answers her entreaty with a growl of triumph. Raising his body over hers, he tucks in against her wetness, brushing through her wet curls again and again in a rocking motion that makes her flush with heat.

"Now," he whispers, and pushes into her body, sealing their fates.

Hermione cries out—in shock, in relief, and in joy. There is pain, but underneath it, a veil of pure pleasure ascends, as translucent as white silk and as inviting as flame.

Her body accommodates her Lord's claim quickly, opening for him and gripping tightly to his thick, hard flesh. The crisp hairs shrouding her core brush against his as he shifts slightly to go even deeper, to the very heart of her, making her shiver.

Seated to the hilt within her at last, he stills for but a moment, allowing her a small respite from his love-making.

She holds her breath. They share no words, only the passage of feeling as their eyes meet and their lips touch. His gaze is filled with blue storm and gold thunder, with passion tightly leashed but desire exposed. Sweat shines at his brow and above his lip, and with a small shake his long, crimson hair falls forward creating a curtain of privacy for them. Released from his imprisonment, she lifts her hands to it and allows her fingers to play with the soft, vibrant strands, realising how very different it is from her own mud-earthen curls.

Man and woman, as different as the oak and the sun, as the wheat and the apple, and yet this mating feels to her as if it were Heaven-sanctioned, even in its sin.

"Breed me," she whispers on a small wing of sound.

William hears her plea and obeys. Moving slowly, he pulls his hips back until Hermione is empty and aching for him to return, and then he slides forward again doing as she silently wills, uniting their flesh once more—relieving her need. Repeating the motion time and again, he soon sets a steady rhythm that matches the beating of her heart and leaves her dizzy and slightly faint.

As his pace quickens, William's breath becomes as heavy as his body, coaxing a lovely tension to life within her belly. The curve of his thrusting hips is all she can see when she glances down between their straining forms, but she feels that even as they pull apart, they are as one, locked together in their mutual lust. The coil of heat within her burns brightly as the bed shakes beneath her and the need swells.

Squeezing her eyes closed, she arches into the dance, lets William take as he pleases...and in doing, receives such pleasure that she cries tears of joy from it.

The mating culminates in their flesh bathed in sweat, smelling of wet sex. With a roar of satisfaction, William is suddenly pulsing heat within her, and her body quakes the moment he finishes, as if the earth itself moves her and moon douses her in its silvery fire. She sobs his name as her spirit escapes towards the blanket of stars far above.

Her lover's mouth devours hers and his hands caress her as he brings her back down. In the aftermath, William vows it is far from over between them, that this is just their beginning.

Under the moon's sway and the night's magic, there in her earthly bed, surrounded by the scent of late-blooming roses and Samhain apples and Allentide harvest, Hermione discovers that he speaks truly again…and again.

* * *

 _ **TO BE CONTINUED...**_

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

 **Again, reminder: this is not a romance fic. It is a DARK FIC.**

 **Please review!**


	5. Deceiver

Her body throbbing and sore, Hermione rests her head back against the cramped, metal tub William had brought back from his overseas Crusade among his luggage, letting the camomile, breweswort, mallow, and brown fennel steeping in the warm water that the servants bring up and replenish every few minutes soothe her pains.

She tries to forget.

She closes her eyes to find peace, and instead remembers the way her lover rose above her a second and then a third time, every muscle under his sun-kissed skin tensing and releasing as he thrust into her o'er and o'er, the rhythm a pulsing heady sensation she cannot help but wish to repeat. She recalls his panting breath in her ear, as if he'd run a distance to catch her...desperate to give her something as powerful and elusive and as wild as he...

 _"Hermione... You are mine in body, if not in name," he tells her in a breathless voice as he surges into her, harder and deeper._

 _His proclamation has her head spinning. This man is magic in the weaving of physical pleasure. Hermione is a heathen in her need; she revels in the incredible arousal stirring in her womb, at the pain in her hips, at the stretch and the way her blood pounds as he takes her e'er closer to that sacred, joyful moment where all the world falls away and she becomes magic, too._

 _William's now-familiar tensing has her knees rising off the bed, her body recognising that something godly and amazing is about to happen once more. And then he shouts and tosses his head back upon his mighty shoulders and he stills. He throbs where they are joined, and she feels the release of his warm seed as his massive body shudders to completion._

 _Three times makes a thing so, she's always been told. This third time is surely the moment of conception. She should be overjoyed at the thought of her impending motherhood. Instead, all she feels is incredible sadness and guilt._

 _As if sensing her regret, William leans down and kisses her gently, almost affectionately as her tremors ease._

How could such beauty cause her such despair?

Her Lord is not the man she believed him to be. His words soothed, assuredly, but with the purpose to disarm. His touch enflamed, yes, but with the intent to ensnare. Deceit and lies poured from his honeyed lips and caressed her skin to arouse her wicked lust—and thus, so easily did he achieve his goal...

 _"I have bred you this night," he whispers as sweetly as the Devil in her ear, "and I will keep you."_

 _Shocked and indignant, the protest rises easily to her lips. "My Lord, I am a married woman. You cannot–"_

 _His grip on her jaw silences her. Gone is the tender lover; William's gaze is a soldier's as he looks into the heart of her and pronounces his will. "Know you this, Hermione: I will be the only man to know you. You are mine, and I am Lord here. You will obey."_

 _He pulls away from her, seeking his discarded clothing from the night before and quickly redressing._

 _Hermione struggles to sit up, every muscle and bone aching. She covers her nudity with the bed's blanket. "'Tis a sin, this adultery we have committed," she reminds him. "Ancient tradition may have allowed for one eve given to my Lord's claim, but it cannot be repeated!"_

 _Through narrowed lids, he gazes upon her, and with cold mouth, he levels upon her head her doom. "Did you know,_ _mate_ _, that your betrothal accords bear my written mark, but not my waxed signet? So eager was he to bring you news of acquiring a match with my family that your father o'er looked the detail. 'Tis a minor technicality, true, but an important one, for without my crest to bear my witness and consent to the marriage upon the legal documentation, the paper is useless."_

 _"B-but you officiated the ceremony!" she protests._

 _"I also do not recall hearing a reading of your marriage banns prior to the ceremony."_

 _"There were no banns," she reminds him. "The course was one taken under your advisement, my Lord, as Ronald and I were not to be wed in church, but by ancient rites, under the sky. 'Twas you who—"_

 _She stops as hateful enlightenment rips the veil of naivety from her eyes._

 _"—you who advised us all."_

 _"Did I?" he asks, slipping into his shirt and tying up his chauces, as casual as the morn' lark sings its greeting of the new day. "I cannot recall. Though 'twas lucky for me, for your desire for a pagan ritual sanctioned the claim for jus primae noctis. I could not have had you else."_

 _Hermione feels an outrage she has ne'er felt before._

 _Tricked! O' evil, sly adversary! She, the innocent lamb, has been duped by the cunning wolf! She has been swindled by a master of the craft, a soldier of God who has fallen from grace to become a henchman of Satan!_

 _"Deceiver!" she hisses at him._

 _He throws over his broad shoulders his tunic, then bends and laces his boots, ignoring her aspersion. "Know that before I arrived at your door yesternight, I was made aware by my man that our priest dispatched a missive to the Bishop of Exeter in protest of your pagan marriage ceremony. In such matters as inheritance within families of the realm, it is well known the church shall investigate all claims of legitimacy, and should they demand to be sent documents regarding the matter, I shall be forced to turn over the unsealed betrothal agreement. Once the Bishop sees no wax or ink-stained signet... Well, my heart's blood, I am afeared it is inevitable that your marriage will be declared false and invalidated." He turns to face her and his wicked smirk declares his dark triumph louder than any horn. "But you are despoiled and bred now, love. Who else will have you once your vows are severed, if not me?"_

 _With that, he gathers up his belt and surcoat and leaves her chambers, heading for his own._

 _Hermione curls up like a wee girl in her bed and cries, realising she has not only been tricked, but has fallen under the protection and charms of King Satan, himself._

Another pitcher of hot water is poured into her bath, nearly filling the tub to overflowing, and Hermione shoos the servants away. They go, giggling as their eyes fall upon the rumpled bed and the blanket with the stain of her maidenhead clear upon its centre.

She takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly as she lowers her hand from her throat...from covering over the wound William's bite has left upon her.

 _"The mark of our mating. Proof that you are one of mine, Hermione. My first consort, like an Ottoman harem."_

If the servants see it, they will think a rabid dog has savaged her.

Savage…yes, it was wild, their love-making. All the eve and unto dawn they came together, untamed and shameless in their lust. He mounted her from above, filling her body with his need, and she had responded in kind, enthusiastic in her sinning.

"What have I done?" she laments, unbidden tears falling from her lashes.

Soft fingers stroke over the wound upon her throat, and a tingling magic crackles down her spine and into the heart of her once more. Hermione's body tenses, her fingers curl into the sides of the tub, and she bites her bottom lip to hold back the moan that threatens to escape her mouth.

"Beautiful," William whispers, tracing her shoulder with a languid caress. "You are a magnificent creature, my love, even in your misery."

She wants to move away, to distance her skin from his, but it seems nigh impossible a task. His hold on her is complete after last eve, even knowing what a false tongue and a wicked soul he has. He has woven an unholy magic around and through her bones, melting her desire for combat, turning her will to all manner of jellies. At the merest brush of his hand, she is enslaved to his lust once more, her body slickening with vile need.

He kneels at her side and possessively runs his fingers through the curls of her hair, massaging her scalp and she falls into his touch once more.

"You ache?"

"Y-yes, m'lord."

His calloused hands are strangely tender as they ease her discomforted muscles.

"I have need of you again," he admits.

She closes her eyes, wraps her arms about her thin frame and shakes her head, trying valiantly to fight his power. " _Droit du seigneur_ is for one night. I do not have to— You said—"

"I said you were mine," he gently, but resolutely reminds her.

Hermione shivers into the side of the tub, pulling as far from William as possible. "I am still married! The Bishop may reject your plan. Last night's sin cannot be repeated!"

"'Twas no sin," he growls and makes his feet.

With great strength, he lifts her from the water and carries her to the bed, unconcerned for the deluge of water he trails behind them or her protests. He lays her face down upon the mattress and spreads her legs. His fingers find the evidence of her lingering heat and stoke it into an inferno, even as he loosens the tie upon his braies.

"We are mated. There can be no sin between us. This, you must learn."

Humiliated by the response of her traitorous body and heart, and terrified by what may come from her continued denials—for William holds the power of life and death over her family—Hermione has no choice but to submit to her lord's use again. He pulls at her hips and enters her sacred body, filling her with his thick flesh. A second forceful thrust and he is in to the hilt of his sword, as deep as a man can be within a woman. He makes her thighs quake as he holds her still with a firm grasp on her hips, impaled and awaiting his pleasure.

"You are mine, witch. Mine e'ermore! I will make you understand this!"

Pressing her tear-streaked cheek into the sheets, Hermione rides out the lovely storm once more, her mind and heart at war with her body the entire time.

* * *

 _ **TO BE CONTINUED...**_

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

 **Ah, you begin to see a darker side to Bill here, as well as Hermione's decent into wantonness, as promised.** **Just wait...it gets darker, my lovelies!**

 **As always, please review, if you would be so kind! :)**


	6. Descent into Hell

For nine days, and then once again nine more, William forbids his brother his husbandly rights to Hermione, claiming her firstborn as his. Until she has evidence that she breeds with the absence of her monthly, he holds her captive within her rooms and refuses her free access to the rest of the household.

Ronald is resentful of the decree, yet powerless, for 'tis the Baron Cranmere's right by law to demand thus, and he dare not risk his opportunities to squire for the Earl of Devon, who leaves in a fortnight.

At first, Hermione rallies against such treatment, demanding freedom, pounding the door with her fists. In her desperation, she even attempts to channel the _energia_ , hoping to use its power to aid in her escape, but it is wild and unpredictable magic, and by God's truth, it terrifies her.

Still, she does manage to unlock the door with it once, but William quickly catches her and seals them back inside. He punishes her attempt to leave him by making wicked love to her all night, binding her to him so powerfully, she hardly notices when he removes the golden band from her marriage finger and tosses it aside.

The next day, bizarre, yet beautiful dried flowers brought back with William from the Far East burn in small metal bowls placed at the four corners of the room, filling the air with a sweet fragrance, and Hermione is made strangely docile by the scent. The flowers are called Blue Lotus, he tells her when she asks, and they grow only in the darkest tributary of the Nile.

 _"They were given in trade to a merchant at Acre while under Saladin's rule and taken as bounty by successful Crusaders under King Richard's authority,"_ he tells her one afternoon when he visits her chambers again. _"They calm the restless heart."_

Indeed, she sleeps oft while inhaling their lovely perfume, and under the sway of such easy slumber, she dreams always of the sin of copulation.

In between bouts of rest and wakefulness, there is William. He comes to her, sometimes fiercely like a wolf, other times sweet as a lover, his sex e'er ready to penetrate her. He cajoles and coaxes her into discovering new delights, using his seductive power o'er her to bend her will to his lust.

To be expected, she denies his advances...at first. The aphrodisiac potency of the flowers weakens her, however, and all too soon, she succumbs to his temptations, falling into hedonism.

At first, he makes small requests: for her to trace the curves of her body with her hands, and to perform for him sensual dances as she undulates atop him. She delights in the wildness in his eyes and the eagerness she provokes from his staff during such moments. Next, he persuades her into taking the length of him into her mouth, and she suckles upon him like a yellow strumpet while on her knees at his feet. She paints her skin and mouth and tongue with his white seed, an odd sense of power o'ercoming her at how she can make him so desirous of her with such ease. Then, he binds her wrists and ankles, lashing her exposed body with sweet leather and the hard skin of his palms, and he places his mouth and cockpiece to all her sacred places, leaving no secret unknown, no matter the Church's edicts on such sin.

As her sexual talents develop, so too does the _energia_ she is able to summon. Channelling it with concentration, she is able to change the shape of things: a belt into a whip, a tunic into a silk scarf, a headdress into a blindfold. She once even changes water into oil, which William then uses to coat his phallus and the lips of her sheathe and the ring of her ane for love play.

Oft, he requests her use this strange magic upon him, too, to make his hair blond or his eyes green. It cannot undo the scars at his cheek, she notes, but it can cover them in the glamour of the _Tylwythe teg_ to make them smooth and perfect for a time.

Slowly, day by day, Hermione becomes enslaved to the pleasure her mate brings her...and to the exalted feeling of owning his pleasure as well. She changes from a shy village girl into a Moon Goddess, and when her courses stop flowing, she transcends again, this time into Mother Rhea.

As evidence of her successful breeding is known, William begins attending to her every need personally: he feeds her from his hand, bathes her without a maid's help, combs her hair, and shaves her body smooth from neck to toe, as he claims they do in Egypt. Unlike other men of breeding lovers, he forgoes custom and continues to love her at night in her bed.

Her Lord's kindness and the pleasure he brings her does not make Hermione forget her place as his prisoner. She is a wren in a gilt cage, and the outside world is lost to her...for now.

 **~.~.~.~.~**

"Your marriage has been invalidated," William tells her one eve while settled deep within her. He has paused in their joining to tell her his news, and there is a wolfish gleam in his eye and a toothy grin upon his bearding face. "The Bishop has seen to it with an official writ. You are free in all ways to be mine forever now, Hermione."

He is a man possessed when he takes her all that night, and she is a woman torn asunder as she both grieves at the knowledge that Ronald is lost to her forever, while reveling in her body's indulgence with his Lord brother many times.

 **~.~.~.~.~**

"He has gone with the old Earl, my finch," Madam Weasley explains, when Hermione is finally allowed out of her bed chambers for the first time in a three month. "'Twas better for you both, given the Bishop's edict."

She looks to the floor as she speaks, and there is sorrow etched into the crags of her aging face.

To Hermione's surprise, her mother approaches her from across the hall. She is a woman transformed by wealth, wearing sumptuous clothing and gold upon her hands and neck. Are these, then, the gifts from her wedding, enjoyed by her mother during her absence?

"Do you breed yet, child?" she asks with some measure of anxiousness.

Hermione is flustered. She has finally come out of seclusion after three full turnings of the moon, and that is all her mother has to say to her?

"Well?"

There is eagerness and greed in her mother's dark eyes as she presses for an answer.

"Yes, Lady Mother. I am three of nine-days and three, and three times more along, bred upon my wedding night." She says this with a tight throat and a pounding heart.

There is triumph in her mother's face and relief in Madam Weasley's wan countenance.

Ronald's mother takes her hand and pats it gently. "Praise all the angels and saints! You will be well cared for now. My eldest treasures his relations. He will see to you."

It is a moment before Hermione comprehends the woman's meaning, but when she understands at last, the revelation is something of a shock to her humours. "Do you say, Madam, that should I not have bred, I would have been ejected from the castle?"

Madam Weasley trades a nervous glance with Hermione's mother. "Sweet child, y-you must understand–"

Her mother tuts once and that cue silences the other woman's tongue. She addresses Hermione directly when she says, "If you had not bred true, daughter mine, we would all of us three—your father, you and I—be out of the castle, and you would further have been exiled from the village to prevent temptation to married men."

Her mother un-gently cups her chin and meets her eye.

"A woman despoiled has no value to an honest man seeking a wife or to an honest trade either, and can only earn her living on her back. Cranmere is a pious village, and does not allow paid fornicators amongst its number. There is no 'stew' here. Do you understand?"

Hermione removes her mother's hand and steps away, casting her eyes downward in shame and humiliation. Her good marriage to Ronald was destroyed on a gamble, and she has been cast forth like the bones before a roaring fire, her fate random and ultimately, inconsequential. "I believe so, Lady Mother." She glances back up, anger burning a hole into her heart and making acid of her tongue. "Although I must ask why such a 'noble' tradition as _droit du seigneur_ would be allowed continuance given thus, as it makes a whore of a good woman in the end. Or is there enjoyment to be found in such ruin of innocence?"

Eleanora Granger's smile dies on the vine.

Hermione looks upon her with disdain, forgetting her filial piety. "Tell me true," she presses, "many Lords are known to have bastards with no care for their mothers, yes? Will you still smile so if the Baron decides to cast me out, child or no?"

She gathers her skirts in hand for a quick escape to her rooms once she delivers the fatal blow:

"After all, I am now no more than a mistress, thanks to your insistence on tradition, with no tie to title and no promise of marriage to protect our family from exile from these lands. And who knows what tomorrow may bring for you, should I displease my lord."

With that, she turns and walks away with false pride in her spine and step. It is only when she is safely behind locked door that she allows her fears freedom.

Dear Father in Heaven, what will she do once William tires of her? For he will, assuredly. No man stays faithful to his wife, and she cannot claim even that protection. He comes to her bed every night, true, but he has vowed not to marry again, so as not to rob his children from his first marriage of their inheritance. He wishes only to adopt Hermione's child, should it be male. There has been no mention of her fate, however, except words spoken in passion—which are as unreliable from men's mouths as wedding vows.

Like a thunderbolt hurled from Zeus' hand, driven into her skull, Hermione realises in that moment that she will never be a wife again. William has stolen that chance from her in his desire to have her. Now, the best she can hope for is to be his winter mistress for every season, until she has amassed enough fortune to guarantee her own protection should he pass.

Her lover has ruined her life.

* * *

 _ **TO BE CONTINUED...**_

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

 **And darker...**

 **Also, I refer you to chapter 1's notes if you are confused by the archaic and foreign terms in this fic.**

 **Please review!**


	7. Awakening to Truth

Set to a strict bed rest after an accidental fall in her fourth month of pregnancy, Hermione's days are now filled with embroidery and learning how to read. William assigns a tutor, and Hermione is pleased to find that she is quick to the page. Within a two month, she is reading with almost full comprehension.

The Baron's library selections are limited, but the few manuscripts he possesses are trophies of his Crusading days in the east, and gifts bestowed upon him by patrons and his fostering family to mark special occasions. These codices are filled with wondrous, horrifying tales that capture Hermione's imagination: Greek heroes slaying monsters, petty Titans and squabbling Olympians, and the terrible fate befalling those whom the gods curse.

They are books the Church would consider heretical, and yet she cannot stay her curious imagination from devouring every word of every page, nor her hunger for more of the same.

It is in such a tome that she chances upon the tale of Lycaon, the man William referred to upon her wedding night.

The ancient tale unfolds that Lycaon, the King of Arcadia, named 'The Hunter', was said to have sired fifty sons upon fourty-nine concubines and a single wife, and to have presented to each male child a wolf's skin upon his manhood to celebrate his dominion over beasts and man. All who were conceived of Lycaon's loins were deemed black-hearted men by the subjects of the land, however.

So bold and nefarious was their father as well, that he caught the attention of Zeus, the Supreme God of Olympus, who watched Lycaon from his seat in the Heavens with interest.

One day, deciding to test Lycaon's worthiness to rule, Zeus took the form of a peasant and sought an audience with the King of Arcadia. Lycaon was sharp of eye, however, and immediately recognised the Lord of Thunder in costume. With a false, wolfish smile, the King invited the god-disguised into his home and to sup at his table that very night. Zeus accepted, but was suspicious of Lycaon's benevolence.

As the King left his throne room, Zeus crept along behind him. He followed Lycaon into a bedroom where a sleeping prince, Nyctimus, lay in peaceful repose, and watched as the King brutally butchered his own son. Lycaon then cut up the body and brought it to the kitchen to be served as the evening's repast.

Now Zeus was no foolish sprite, dewy to the earth and to man's treachery. He knew that eating the flesh of a murdered innocent was one of only a few, very well-guarded and secret ways to transform any god or man alike into a slavering, four-legged beast. Zeus understood then that Lycaon had intended to trick him into an animal's form, and thus to slay him as a hunter of beasts would, and then to steal Zeus' great thunderbolt so he might taking up the god's place in the Heavens.

Zeus pretended to partake of the meal that night, but he did not eat the boy's boiled and prepared flesh, watching instead as Lycaon and his family dined upon Nyctimus' soft body and became drunk on his salted blood.

As the meal finished, at last the exalted Zeus revealed himself to all and to his knowledge of the plot against him. He judged Lycaon a deceiver of men and gods alike, unfit to rule either, and punished the King of Arcadia by turning him into the monster of his soul—half-man, half-wolf, able to neither live fully wild, nor among humankind ever again…but to feel the pull of both.

Lycaon's remaining sons, who feasted upon their brother's corpse, were turned into wild wolves themselves. Zeus sent them into the world to be hated and hunted by men for their father's treachery.

And so it was that Lycaon the Hunter became the cursed and reviled Lycaon the Deceiver, a father of monsters.

In a twist of ironic fate, his kingdom fell to his eldest daughter, Callisto, who ruled it fairly and wisely, a Queen of Magic and Men. A woman ruling a kingdom! To think of it makes Hermione's heart soar.

If only such a thing were permitted still.

 **~.~.~.~.~**

Hermione is six months along when Charles Gideon Weasley comes to visit with his three other brothers in tow. Percival, Frederick, and George have arrived at Cranmere as well to discuss the Baronial holdings they administer on their brother's behalf and to give news of King Richard's death in France.

"John's to reign. His coronation is next month," Charles informs them all, and from her hidden perch above the great hall, Hermione sees the expressions of the Weasley men sour. They have been, to a man, loyal to the Lionheart.

While William and Charles fought at their King's side in the Holy Lands, Percival, Frederick, and George had remained in England to administer Cranmere. Ronald, of course, was still in fostering at the time, and too young for politics, however the three middle Weasleys had aided the rebellion against Prince John, who had attempted to usurp the throne while his eldest brother was away on Christ's mission. It was safe to breathe that not a one of them had any love for John Lackland.

…At least it had been, until Richard's death. Now to say such a thing aloud would be treason.

"That's a fortnight less than is proper to mourn," Percival comments, sniffing with disdain at such an idea. He is, Hermione knows, a man who respects rules.

"'Tis the way of the world," William says, sipping from his tankard. "We all abide by God's will."

Charles snorts. "More like a sovereign's will," he states, glancing at his eldest brother with grim feature. "The bending and breaking of law is a thing for those with power. The rest of us must accept punishment for our poor judgments."

William holds his brother's gaze when he asks, "And do you now wish to rule to escape such a fate, little brother?"

Shaking his head, Charles raises his palms up, showing them to be empty of intent in the universal sign of surrender. "Not me, brother. I do not wish for the burden. I leave the decision of Cranmere's fate in your hands." His hands drop, and he picks up his tankard, swirling its contents. He stares into the deep drink, as if seeing the mysteries of the world in the dark amber liquid. "Speaking of which, how fares our youngest brother? Is he waylaid in Rome, attempting to find himself a new wife?"

Hermione's heart drums loudly under her skin.

Ronald is to take another wife?

The thought had not occurred to her that he might do so, although a part of her has known since the proclamation from the Bishop that such a thing might bear fruit someday. She just had not expected such a thing so soon.

Although, she has no room to throw stones.

The hall is silent, and Hermione peeks again around the hanging tapestry to glance the reason. William is silent, glaring at Charles. Charles meets his brother's gaze, unflinching. Percival, Hermione notes, is clearly in Charles' corner, as he too appears disapproving of William. There is tension between the three men that is not easily mended.

It is George, the mediator, who boldly steps between the two with an offer to refill their tankards. As he does so, he makes small talk. His twin, Frederick, joins in. The two make ribald commentary about Prince John's hairy rump and how England will go to the dogs now that the Lionheart is no more.

"There is no easy way to say this," William finally states, sitting taller in his chair at the head of the table. His officious demeanour has his brothers going silent and retaking chairs. He clears his throat behind a heavy fist. "I will speak the truth as it has been conveyed to me in a letter that I received from the Countess Devon only days ago. It is that which has hastened me to summon you here."

His great lungs fill with air and expire just quickly as he speaks.

"As you are aware, our brother's caravan left late in the season and had decided to take the land road to Rome. They were delayed by snow-covered passes, and forced to bunker down until just this month past. With an early spring, the Earl of Devon demanded they push onwards even knowing the first warming of the world is high-tide for robbers starving after winter's famine."

He pauses, his lips pursing with grim.

"The pilgrims were set-upon after crossing the Alps, following the Frankish Route. Our dearest brother, Ronald, was...he was slain defending his Lord."

Hermione's heart falls out of her and she gives a cry of utter despair at such terrible news.

Every face in the hall looks up to her position, but all she can see is William's blue gaze conveying feigned regret.

Grief stricken, she races to her rooms as fast as her heavy belly permits and sobs as a child into her pillow. Her beloved Ronald...gone! Her dearest friend, her first love has departed, ne'er to return! His body lies in a foreign land, desecrated by evil men!

She wails and screams in despair for her loss and at the unfairness of the world. Emotions roil through her chest, burning her with their passing. The _energia_ of her life spirit crackles at her fingertips, and suddenly she is floating above the bed, her things are spinning around the room, changing shape at random. Her trunk becomes thousands of glass beads that scatter and roll across the floor, her wooden chair near the casement becomes a pile of kindling, and precious beeswax candles melt on their sticks, wasted.

The storm ends only when her sorrow sinks to the bottom of her soul, and she falls into exhaustion so deep that she does not awaken until much later to the sight of William sitting at her bedside, watching her with his blue-gold wolf's eyes.

"All I have done has been for us, for our pack," he tells her, rubbing a hand lightly over her distended belly. "In time you will forgive me."

It is then that she understands: he is responsible for Ronald's murder. The winter robbers, she is willing to bet, were paid with the Baron's gold.

* * *

 _ **TO BE CONTINUED...**_

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

 **Well, it seems Hermione's finally beginning to see how deep the devil's cauldron is that she's been cast into...but it seems she's also finally 'awakening' as a result...**

 **Please review!**


	8. Hecate's Disciple

Nine moons pass when Hermione's labour is upon her at long last. She is near to death as she delivers a male child unto her lord.

William wastes no time in claiming her newling, much to her mother's pleasure. It is, Hermione knows, a precaution in case Louis dies.

As her lover takes their boy away, he gives Hermione an approving, warm glance. The door closes behind him with finality, and she feels a chill pass through her, so huddles deeper under the furs.

 **~.~.~.~.~**

A month passes, and it is autumn once more. The leaves outside Hermione's bedroom window turn their glorious colours as they die off, and the village prepares for winter harvesting.

Her body has been slow to recover from childbirth. Her courses have finally stopped, thanks be to God, but her belly continues to bloat and there is a sharp pain in her side when she sits up too quickly or walks too fast. Her breasts are large, heavy, and tender, and the pegs the priest has dictated she wear to obstruct her flowing milk ache as they clamp her nipples. She is allowed relief of their weight once a day, to empty them of their life-giving fluid into ritual bowls, which the priest blesses and then sends to the homes of the faithful women who are barren, hoping to make their wombs fruitful once again so they may multiply.

Hermione endures, but poorly. Her continued confinement has made her waspish of mood at times, and at others, she falls into a dark melancholy and fits of weeping. Often, she is scolded for these tempers by her mother, who visits her chambers more than Hermione would wish.

Her fear of her future grows daily, as William does not visit her bed. She has seen little of him since their child's birthing, and she has not a single time seen her son since the day of his advent into the world. He's been given to a waiting-woman to wet nurse and they stay to the nursery on the other side of the castle, per custom.

Chambermaids and a lady-in-waiting attend her, mostly, and bring her needlepoint to embroider to pass the time. None of them stay long enough for good conversation, none bring her new manuscripts or letters, and none will pass gossip. All seem nervous and agitated, as if guilty of an unnamed crime, but Hermione cannot convince them to speak of it.

As time passes, so she feels suffocated by her in-between position, with not even bowls of burning lotus to soothe her nerves.

 **~.~.~.~.~**

As September turns to October, Hermione has had enough of molly-coddling and evasion. Dressing her creaking body, which has weakened from lack of exercise, she combs her hair back, slips into her shoes, and makes her way out of her rooms, determined to head for the Great Hall.

She stops at the landing above the open chamber, hearing raised voices. Hiding behind a curtain once more, she eavesdrops on the conversation below.

William's brothers are back with an announcement of Frederick's intent to marry a lovely, young maid named Angelina, daughter of the Earl of Pembrook's personal seamstress. The couple were introduced years earlier through Frederick's fostering to the earl and, according to the man it was love upon first sight. Per custom, the groom must have his lord's permission to marry, however, and so he has come appealing it.

From her vantage point, Hermione hears and sees much and recognises the gleam in William's lusty wolf eyes at the mention of a young, unspoiled maiden entering his household. He agrees to the union a little too easily and with a sly smile, especially as the maiden comes forth to be presented to him.

As Angelina curtseys in a courtly fashion at William's feet, Hermione fears that she is soon to be displaced.

 **~.~.~.~.~**

Frederick marries Angelina upon Samhain, in the same ancient Celtic tradition as she, herself, had known. Hermione is not invited. She has been ordered to her quarters by William, in fact, so she may not spoil the surprise awaiting the new bride come the witching hour.

From down the hallway, she hears all, however.

After the ceremony ends and the new bride is escorted to her chambers to prepare for the anticipated bedding by her husband, she hears Lady Weasley's soft voice explaining _Droit du seigneur_ and Angelina's angry rejection at the duplicity of her host-family. Hears the woman's rage eventually melt into tears as she pleads with her new husband not to allow William his rights as Lord, and hears, eventually, Angelina's bed put to use as the woman's protestations are ignored and the Baron Cranmere exerts his influence upon her.

Under the furs in her own room, Hermione cries with profound unhappiness. William's betrayal stings deep and she questions his reasoning for this action. Has she not done what has been required of her, despite the injury to her soul and the ruin of her marriage? She has surrendered her virtue to her lord, produced an heir for him, should he have need, and even well-satisfied William's dark desires many a time upon the mattress.

Yet, tonight, as she listens to Angelina's cries and William's low moaning, and the familiar sounds of a wooden frame creaking under stress, she knows that her many sacrifices and her descent into debauchery and sin have all been for naught.

She strokes over the scar that lingers at her throat, the imprint of William's teeth from that first night when he'd come to her and claimed her.

 _"The mark of our mating. Proof that you are one of mine, Hermione. My first consort…"_

First consort.

Why had she not considered his words more carefully? In plain speak he had divulged his nefarious plans to take each of his brother's wives for his own, and that she was no more than a number to him—no better than any of Lycaon's consorts had been to the mighty King of Arcadia.

She has been simply a means to an end for William: to breed sons, to create a pack of loyal soldiers, to assure his legacy.

But to what ultimate end? Will he attempt to become the Lycaon of legend and become a King as well? Mayhap his ambition extends higher into the Heavens, even?

O, fool! O folly!

And she, an unwilling accomplice to his greed, had been the first casualty…no the second, behind William's dead wife, Fleur. Now Hermione knows she has served her purpose, and has been usurped by his next victim. She plays the part of the duped whore—a black harlot, whose prayers for salvation from this madness will not be answered by Heaven's angels, for she has fallen too far from grace to be heard.

A sudden, choking fear creeps along her heart. What of her son, the boy christened 'Hugo William' a month ago? Is he even alive? She has been forbidden to visit the nursery, kept from doing so by servants and soldiers who bar her path and turn her about when she approaches that end of the castle.

What if he is already dead?

Worse, what if he is still alive, kept under guard for the sole purpose of using him as leverage against her?

What sort of crib death will be her little one's fate should his father find him dispensable?

This night marks an end for her, one way or another. William has destroyed her life on a whim, and now that he has a new amusement, he will surely cast her out into the road and keep her son...or he will simply arrange for both to meet an unfortunate death, much as he had her husband...or he will chain her to this household for life and make an Ottoman harem slave of her, as promised.

No matter his intentions, it is a thing unquestioned that her future is set for sadness.

For the first time, she wonders if William's dead wife, the Lady Cranmere, had truly expired of illness, as he has ever claimed, or if she had met a more nefarious end. Perhaps something to do with poisoning by an exotic herb brought back from Crusade, for instance. As the daughter of a physician-chiurgeon, Hermione is well aware that there are certain flowers and roots and nectars that can be gathered and ground into fine powder, or that can be distilled into tinctures and tonics, or that can be burned like incense to slowly envenomate a victim. Had William dispatched his wife, Fleur, in such a manner?

If so, what will Hermione's fate be, for she is no wife. She is naught more than a consort, without even a written agreement between her and William to see to her care-taking. Will he murder her to make way for Angelina? Or will he keep her and Angelina both, exerting his rights as Lord of his family to annul Angelina's marriage, too? And what of when he loses interest in Frederick's wife? Will the cycle repeat with each of his brother's wives? Will he make a pack of them, all bitches in heat for his use?

Anger such as she has never known boils her blood and reddens her vision. Her lover truly is Lycaon the Deceiver, a wolf wearing a man's face, preying upon innocent lambs.

She cannot allow him to get away with such evil!

...But she is no soldier, like the Weasley sons.

What power has she, a mere woman—

The thought gives her pause. All her life she has been told that hers is the weaker of the genders, but such is not true. She has read of the mighty Penthesilea, who took up sword against the unbeatable Achilles, and of terrifying Nox, mother-creator of Thanatos, bringer of Death. Even the Christ Saviour was born of woman, conceived with no man's help, but requiring a mother to come unto the world.

And like the great goddesses of Olympus, Hermione can do things unnatural...things William cannot, things that make him and all men like him envious, indeed.

She is not powerless a'tall.

She rolls onto her back and lifts her hands to the sky, summoning forth _energia_. It crackles like blue lightning from her fingertips, leaping unto life as easily now as her name falls from her lips. Over the last year, she has grown comfortable with its dark pull, with the way it tickles her skin, begging to be used.

In sooth, she often uses it as a distraction from the boredom of her existence, turning spun thread into ribbons for hair and into string to play cratch-cradle with herself, to keep her room dust free and to freshen her clothing, to summon owls to her window from nearby trees at night, and to keep the potted lemon balm and mint plants in her room watered and neatly trimmed. A'times, she plays with fascinating tongues of light, fashioning them into a child's ball and rolling it between her palms.

Why again had she feared this gift?

She cannot recall now, for it seems as natural a thing to her as the talent to sew, or to brew potions under her father's instruction.

Recalling the way she'd used it to appease William's curiosity and to heighten their bed play, and the way the room spun and changed as her grieving for Ronald nearly tore her bleeding heart from her chest, she realises at last: here, then, is her strength to defeat William's scheming.

 _"You are a daughter of Hecate, goddess of magic…"_

All the things she can do now, after so many days alone and much practise in secret, why has she never considered using such a thing before to escape or to improve her lot?

" _It is a thing of evil_ ," the parish priest's voice whispers in her head, as if in warning. " _You will burn in hell, o' consort of Satan! O' damned witch, the fires of perfidy await ye!"_

…From down the hallway, Angelina's sobbing can be heard echoing. It is the heartbroken sound of a woman abused.

 _I am aright hell-bound for breaking my vows—for laying with a man not my husband, and for allowing my body to be bred by a monster. I did not speak my suspicions to authority when my beloved was betrayed to his death by his own kin. I have forsaken myself, and now there is nothing left for me to fear,_ she thinks, resolved to her course. _If I am to burn in liquid fire for eternity, if such be my fate…then I'll take the bastard Baron with me._

She prays then for the strength to do what she must, and hopes her son, if he lives still, will someday forgive her for what she plans for his father.

Her prayers are not sent to Heaven, however, but to a more primordial place that dwells deep within the secret heart of all women—to a place that speaks of justice in terms of vengeance and of death as a new kind of freedom. Man's God may have abandoned her to a terrible, unwarranted fate, but Hermione's new Goddess will not.

Great Hecate, the Queen of Witches, protects her own.

* * *

 _ **TO BE CONTINUED...**_

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

 **So it begins - Hermione's plans for revenge...**

 **Please review!**


	9. Deep, Red Vengeance

Hermione practices changing her features with magic. It is a difficult feat, but one she manages to master by dawn.

Changing her clothing as well, she adopts the mien of a waiting-woman and crosses the castle, seeking the nursery. It is a challenge to maintain her clever disguise, requiring concentration. When, at last, she is allowed to pass into the children's wing, it is a struggle not to rush to her son's side. There are other women about, however, and so she must not lose her game yet.

She passes by the room devoted to Louis, appalled by the smell coming from his open doorway, and determined to discover the reason upon her way back. For the moment, she must find her son, for to ken if he is alive or dead is what has driven her into this dangerous scheme. She will return for Louis anon.

Her son has been given a room at the end, far from his half-brother. He is being nursed by a village woman, and the sight of her son's dark-auburn head, already thickening with curls, bent to another breast is like a hunter's arrow to Hermione's heart. It takes all her will not to fall upon the woman and rip the babe from her, to cradle that tiny head to her own nipple and to be mother at long last.

She escapes with murmured excuse, ducking into an empty chamber. There, she allows her tears to flow in muffled silence behind her hand.

William Hugo is alive and being well-cared for by a healthy woman. It is enough to know that for now.

Later, when she is once again composed, Hermione slips free of her hidden place and heads back to check on Louis. The moment she opens the door, the sweet-rotten stench of death greets her, and she knows with a single look at the reeking chamber pot beneath his still, swaddled body hanging from its peg that the child has been vanquished by the flux.

With reverence and a mother's sorrow, she removes the tiny body and tends to its cleaning. She then lays it out in its crib and covers it with a sheet. There is nothing more she can do without risking her discovery, and so leaves the child with a prayer for its soul to find Heaven and Hecate's breast.

As she makes her way back towards her apartments, Hermione feels fury again stew within her heart. William, obviously, had no care for his son's health, and now the innocent, sweet child is gone, a victim of his father's lack of empathy.

The man will pay for this sin, too.

 **~.~.~.~.~**

When Hermione descends the stairs to the Great Hall that noontide, it is to find William and his brothers seated a-table, speaking sparsely, stuffing their mouths. Hermione comes in her nightingale cloak, a creation of her own magical making. The sumptuous fur of her cloak is a mink sable so dark, it seems to reflect eternity and radiates heat. Her chemise and bodice are a plain woollen design, but drawn tight to accentuate her curves.

The Lord of Cranmere pauses in drinking from his tankard to take her in. There is a wolf's heat in his gaze. It is the first such look he has levelled her way in many moons.

Charles, ever the chivalrous one, stands and approaches Hermione. He bows at the waist in greeting and offers her his arm. She gives him a gentle smile and a graceful curtsy before placing her palm upon his extended forearm and allowing him to guide her to the table. As she is not a wife, nor even a woman of title, she is relegated to sitting at the end, away from the head. However, Charles breaks tradition and seats next to her so she may not be lonely. She thanks him for his kindness.

When she glances back down towards the lead of the table, William is glaring at her and his brother. She ignores him, and lowers her head in prayer for breaking the fast. Secretly, she prays not to God, but to her Goddess for strength.

There is a several moment of silence, and then Frederick explodes, slamming his palm down upon the wooden table. "Where is my bride, brother?" he demands, snarling like an animal. "I'll not let you keep her, too. Angelina is my wife!"

A wolf's craftiness slides through William's gaze, and a placating smile appears on his lips. "She is well, brother mine. You may see to her as soon as she awakens. My personal servants are caretaking her this morn. She had a decidedly…long eve."

O' how his tongue is barbed like a snake's, his bite venomous!

Frederick's fists clench and he trembles with rage. It requires his twin, George, to calm him with whispered words and a slight touch to his arm.

There is again a moment of quiet before Hermione decides it is time to make her first move.

"My son," she says, putting the wroth of the angels into her voice. "I want him, William. We are returning to the village."

His blue eyes shift to her, and the gold of the wild flashes in them at her defiance. "Do not be tedious, my lady. We have discussed this. The boy stays. Hugo is my heir apparent, should anything happen to Louis."

"Aye, until Angelina breeds for you," George snarls, indignant for his twin. "Then will the babe suffer the same fate as Louis—forgotten when the next child comes?"

"Or Ronald," Charles adds, his strong sword hand resting lightly, but with an ominous warning upon the table. "Dead in a fortunately timed 'accident'?"

But Louis is already dead. His demise has yet to be announced by the waiting-women above in the nursery. They are, most likely, covering up their incompetence. Either that, or they have not yet discovered the cold body, their neglect knowing no bounds.

There is silence in the hall after Charles' implication. Only the snapping of the fire in the roaring hearth breaks through the stillness.

Late in the eve the night afore, before her experiments in changing her features had begun, Hermione had slunk down to the Great Hall and found the other brothers gathered around the hearth. For a two hour, she'd comforted Frederick with words and plied him with ale as he'd shed tears of frustration and fury. She'd also warned the other brothers of William's treachery and her suspicions, and had explained to them some of her plans. Their own misgivings as to the fate of their youngest brother and the changes in William since his return from Crusade had agreed with her thoughts on the matter, and it had been then that they had come to an accord as to the handling of the Baron Cranmere, and as to her flight from the lord's captivity.

This confrontation was to be the beginning of it.

She divides up the food on her plate, forcibly keeping calm, standing to her inner script. "The babe and I are leaving, m'lord. Follow if you dare."

His lip curls like a dog's. "Step outside these castle walls, and I will have you locked in a much colder place than your rooms."

"Do you threaten your brother's widow?" Percival asks, clearly appalled at the very notion.

"Have a care, brother," William warns his challenger. The grip he maintains on his dagger and silver is white-knuckled, and there is a hiss to his words that betrays a hint of the wild restrained within.

Hermione decides it is time to withdraw. She has declared her intentions and set her trap.

Setting aside her plate, she gives a small bow and issues thanks to the brothers for their many kindnesses towards her, especially Charles. She allows her gaze to linger upon the second eldest Weasley son a mite longer than is proper, and then she leaves the hall without her lord's permission.

She feels his jealous and angry eyes upon her, and knows he will be visiting her chamber tonight after all.

She prays Angelina will hasten from the castle with Frederick while she buys them this chance. That way, there can be no accusations of witchcraft hurled at the woman in the afters.

 **~.~.~.~.~**

"You push too far, wench."

William's irritation with her has been simmering for hours. He is a possessive man, and she knows he did not enjoy her flirtations with Charles at today's luncheon, nor at tonight's dinner. His temper is riled and his need to reassert his dominance is what has led him here to her rooms this night. He is so like the creature that lurks under his skin…the one she sees clearly now that she uses Hecate's touch to enhance her vision of the world.

"You are trouble to me and mine. I should toss you from the walls and be done with you," he threatens in a low growl.

"Have I truly been such a burden to you, my lord? I do beg your mercy."

Gloriously naked and stretched out upon her furs, Hermione parts her knees and allows William a broad sweeping look into her delights. She has oiled her breasts and her plump, pink lips, as he has taught her, and she wears his golden slave chains and attached heavy jewellery to the rings to clamp the flow of her milk from her nipples. Her _energia_ has allowed her to perfect her body as well. There are only smooth curves and golden skin, and high breasts that are heavy with temptation. No marks of child-bearing ruin her perfection. With her magic, she has tamed her curly hair, allowing it to flow in a soft cascade across her shoulder.

She is Venus rising from the pearl, a perfect enchantress of his making.

He reaches for his belt, unleashes it and lets it fall heavily to his feet. "I will ruin you for your impertinence, mate." His clothing falls away, quickly, until he is magnificently nude like young Adam in the garden. "You will learn your place."

She channels the strong women of her history: Mathilda and Boadicea, Cartimandua and Eleanor. She holds her arms out to him and opens her mouth, letting them speak.

"Then come, teach me tonight's lesson."

He is upon her and inside her with a single, hard thrust. His satisfied groan is loud in her ear.

"Did you enjoy your shy virgin?" she boldly asks, enticing him by moving her hips.

"She was adequate to the task," he returns, stroking in and out of her slowly, prolonging her torture. "Her maidenhead was a wonder to breach—valiantly fought over, yet taken with ease."

He is as all men of his rank, arrogant and cock-strutting. Hermione lets her nails sink deep into his shoulders in punishment for his foul boasting. She lets him believe it is done out of jealousy.

He laughs in the face of the pain she gives him.

Their ride is hard, their passion burns, and Hermione revels in her power to seduce her lordly lover into a wild frenzy. When he at last finishes, he falls into the gentle arms of Pasithea, nestling under the furs for warmth.

Hermione waits until the deep sounds of his rest reverberate through the chamber, and then she is on her feet, redressing. She hurries to enact her plan, setting out bowls of Black Lotus she had stolen from his rooms earlier in the day to burn here now, to assure William will be unable to rise a' soon. She then slips into the disguise of a waiting-woman again and steals off to the nursery. There, she retrieves Louis' body, undisturbed from where she'd left it that morn, and hurries away, concealing herself and the child with Hecate's help.

She heads to the kitchen, adopting the face of a cook's wench, finding the fires cold and the help already abed. Laying the child out, she uses precious _energia_ to restoke the hearth's flames, and sets her heart for the gruesome, necessary task ahead.

* * *

 _ **TO BE CONCLUDED...**_

* * *

 **Author's Notes:**

 **Revenge is a dish best served cold, yes?**

 **Please review!**


	10. A Woman's Heart Is Her Own (FINAL)

The next morn, William appears at the dining table for the first meal appearing as if he has indulged in one too many tankards of ale the night a'fore.

Hermione intently watches him from the seat she has already taken at the end of the table in her customary place, carving an apple freshly picked from the orchards beyond the castle walls into small wedges.

"A busy night, brother," Charles greets him with a nod.

"Aye, and it has made me ravenous," William admits, reaching for a hunk of bread and breaking it without prayer, wolfing it down. With an imperious wave, he summons a servant to bring him his meal. A bowl of fresh stew is laid before him moments later and he falls upon it like a starving man.

Hermione and the other Weasley brothers watch, partaking only of the wine, bread, and cheese set before them, as she has instructed them. Percival frowns at his sibling's ill-manners.

It is only when his bowl is mostly empty that William looks up at them. "What news has silenced your mouths this fine day, my brothers?" he asks, noting the tension with narrowed eyes.

Percival, Frederick, and George all look to Charles to answer for them.

Charles knocks back his ale and sets the tankard aside. "Your son and heir, brother mine, is dead. Your waiting-woman has delivered unto us the news only this morn: Louis has succumbed to the flux."

The Baron Cranmere goes still and his face turns as white as freshly fallen snow at first, then quickly red as the heart of a fire with rage. "Why was I not informed of this tragedy earlier?"

He sounds remarkédly controlled for so melancholy a message.

Percival musters a disapproving tut. "Your recent...activities...seemed to have left you too exhausted to be easily roused, brother."

"And unable to be found in your own bed again," Frederick adds with a snarl, and tosses back his ale. The dark cloak of night had allowed him to slip his bride away the eve before, as Hermione had planned, but he has bravely returned for this final battle. He stares with undisguised hatred at his eldest sibling now.

"You slept as one of the dead," Hermione calmly explains to her Baron lover, continuing to cut her apple into parchment-thin slices, "which is, perhaps, a state you will prefer after I inform you of my treachery, m'lord. For you see, it is my aim today to free myself, our son, and your brothers from your tyranny, William, one way or the other."

William huffs his disdain. "What do you say, mad woman? Speak plainly."

She ignores her lord and instead turns to his brothers. "For the sake of your immortal souls, I beg of you all to leave this hall and see not the fate I intend for your Lord and brother."

Charles sits further back into his high-backed chair. "I speak not for the others, my lady, but it is my intention to stay and bear witness to your great justice. I pray God forgive me my wicked curiosity."

Across the table, Percival gives a stiff nod. "For Ronald, I must not waver in this course," he states and he, too, stays put in his seat.

The twins are silent and unanimous, glaring at William with a matching hatred. They seek revenge for the wrong done to Frederick and Angelina, for Ronald and Louis, and for Fleur, too.

Hermione sighs. "As you wish, great sirs." She turns her head then and looks to her lover with contempt as he sits like a King upon his throne at the head of the table. "You shall sit as observers of Hecate's revenge upon the Deceiver. Mother Moon will punish a wolf this day."

As quick as a serpent, William's eyes dart from brother to brother. "What do you all here? What lunacy is this that comes from the mouth of this wench?"

"If I have been made a wench, it has been at your evil hands," Hermione accuses him. "All here know it to be true."

He scoffs and waves in her direction, speaking to his brothers. "Do you give her your loyalty now, this whore of Babylon? Do you take her side over that of blood?"

When there is no response from Charles, Percival, Frederick, and George, the answer is made obvious. This enrages William and he pounds his chest with a fist and slams it upon the table. Sweat dots his forehead and upper lip, and his eyes bulge, as if he is suddenly in the grips of a catching fever.

"I am your Lord! You would betray me?"

"It is you who betrayed us!" Frederick declares, shouting loud enough for John Lackland to hear, should he be listening from his bower in London. "You steal your brother's wives, breed them, take their wealth into your coffers, and kill your own blood to keep what you have taken! You allow your firstborn to rot in an ill-kept nursery while you slake your lust on the innocent and pure! You break God's laws and dare to call yourself a Soldier for Christ! It is blasphemy!"

"You dare!" William roars.

"'Tis true, you have not been the same since returning from Crusade, William," Charles insists. "Your attack by wolves in the wilds of Hungary has made you kindred to them. You are more beast now than man. Satan's hand rests upon your soul."

Percival looks with pity upon his eldest sibling. "You have become the rabid dog, William."

"And you will be brought low," George states, firm in his conviction.

Abruptly, William stands to face his accusers. Beads of perspiration roll down his face and his hands shake. "'Tis treason you speak of!" He weaves on his feet, staggers a step to the side, and blinks as if his body begins to yield to illness. Wiping his brow, he looks at his hand, confused. "What evil is done upon me?"

"You do not see it yet, my Lord?" Hermione taunts, setting her apple and her knife aside as her paring is done. "Look harder."

He does, and she laughs with joy inside her heart the moment he becomes enlightened. He picks up his stew bowl, sniffs it once, and then tosses it to the floor with a look of distaste. Its small remaining contents splatter across the stone, the gravy staining the hall rushes. "Poison?" he hisses, and moves to draw his sword, but his arm seems not to obey him. It flops uselessly, too weak to do as bid. "You have killed me!"

"In a manner of speaking," Hermione confesses. "Tell me, my Lord, do you recall the story of Lycaon, the King of Arcadia? Do you remember his fate for daring to consider himself equal to a god?"

William's blue-gold eyes flare with fear, but the change begins to take him then, and he hunches forward, gripping his belly in pain. "Bitch!" he snarls at her with a voice garbled and bloody as his teeth elongate and his jaw breaks. "My son! My Louis! You...fed me... Traitoress bitch!"

He screams and falls to his knees, gripping his head with hands that grow long like hair, its nails becoming pointed and sharp as a great animal's. He hunches, and beneath the table, none can see, but all can hear the change that o'ertakes him. Bones break, skin snaps. William shrieks with agony as he becomes the beast outside that is mirrored within.

The Deceiver receives his due.

Hermione's mother, Angelina, Lady Weasley, and Ginevra run to the hallway from their apartments. They look on in horror as Hermione's curse comes to fruition, and they cross themselves and ward against evil.

When it is done, with a wolf's howl of pain and fear, William leaps up on deformed feet and rushes towards the door to freedom, towards the wild. No one prevents his fleeing, for all know the hunt will be called tonight after the villagers see the monster roaming among them.

There is no escape for the wicked.

It is quiet in the hall thereafter, aside from Lady Weasley's weeping. Percival takes his mother into his arms and consoles her, while Frederick does the same for his wife and George his sister. Hermione uses precious _energia_ to erase the evidence of her misdeed. The spilled bowl of stew disappears, as if the Almighty Hecate has swept it away. With a thought directed towards the kitchen, the stew there vanishes as well.

She says a silent prayer for poor Louis. In a moment, she will make her excuses to attend to his final rites, and tonight, she will return to the hall before the hunt to tell all that she burned the child's bones like the heathen children of old and set his ashes to the winds, in honour of the traditional Celtic ceremonies that his father so respected. She will pay the village priest a tithe for a mass to be said in the boy's name. None will be the wiser, as she has already disposed of the incriminating book containing Lycaon's tale.

Her mother cautiously approaches her. "What have you done, childe?"

"That which was necessary," Hermione replies in a low, pitiless tone. "My body is again my own, Angelina's terror executed, Louis' suffering ended, an' all wrongs are avenged and honour appeased."

"Ye have doomed your soul in the doing!" the woman warns and crosses herself again.

Hermione laughs, untroubled by the thought. She leans forward, pressing her lips to her mother's ear and lovingly whispers, "Beware my wrath does not fall elsewhere, dear Mother Mine."

Lowering her mud-coloured eyes in fear, her mother submits, and Hermione knows from this day forward, nothing will ever be the same between them.

The others now turn to Charles for leadership, confused in the absence of a Lord and Master. The good soldier sheathes his sword, drawn out of fear of William's earlier wroth, and moves towards the head of the table, accepting the mantle of authority. He sends runners out into the village with a warning not to chase the man-beast that runs rampant through their roads and fields, and calls for volunteers for tonight's hunt. The men see their new _Capetanus_ in an instant and move to do his bidding without hesitation.

Charles is an excellent choice, despite his earlier reservations. Hermione sees through Hecate's third eye that he will rule as Baron Cranmere fairly and without challenge for years to come, accepting her as his wife and fostering her son until Hugo reaches his manhood to adopt his birthing title, his 'God-given' title, according to the crown.

Silently, she smiles at that, for it was not God this day that served her justice, but a pagan goddess, instead.

Slowly, tiredly, Hermione makes to retire, taking with her the apple she has sliced into an offering. She tosses its pieces into the great hall's roaring hearth, along with a pouch of cinnamon and ground walnuts she earlier skived from the kitchen, letting the scents fill the air and sanctify the hall.

Beneath her fingertips, her magic blooms and tingles, letting her know Hecate has accepted her late Samhain offering.

A free woman at long last, she raises her voice to the heavens to sing:

 _"Y wawr yn torri_ _  
_ _Mae'r tyndra yn esgyn_ _  
_ _Fy nghyned yn aros_ _  
_ _Rwy'n barod i'r siwrne_

 _Henuriaid yn galw_ _  
_ _O fore tan nos_ _  
_ _Maen't yn aros am yr aberth_ _  
_ _A fydd i'w rhoi rhyddhad_

 _Yn gynnar yn y bore_ _  
_ _Lleisiau yn fy ngalw_ _  
_ _Yr amser wedi cyrraedd_ _  
_ _Ac mae'n rhaid i'm fynd_

 _Wedi treilio amryw flwyddyn_ _  
_ _Paratoi am yr eiliad hon_ _  
_ _Er mwyn rhoi fy nghorff mewn offrwm_ _  
_ _I'r Derwyddon."_

 _._

* * *

 _ **~FIN~**_

* * *

 **Author's Final Notes:**

And so we come to the end of this dark tale of rape, murder, and revenge. No sequel planned - I like it just as it is. Please let me know what your thoughts!

XOXO,

\- RZZMG


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